Shouting and Whispers
by Sparkling Soul
Summary: Written for the first challenge of "Let's Write Sherlock". The prompt was "After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…". Well there's a child kidnapping) and Sherlock is reckless and John gets angry and Sherlock is sorry and they have hot romantic sex.


**This was written for the first challenge of "Let's Write Sherlock". The prompt was "After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…" and I was planning on writing a short oneshot, with a few explanations about the case, a confrontation and maybe some smut, but as per usual I am desperately unable to be concise in my writing, so it extended into 7k words worth of action, angst, smut and unapologetic fluff. **

The lights of nightly London flickering beyond the cab's window were apparently endlessly fascinating, John mused. Sherlock had been staring at them fixedly for over ten minutes now, pointedly ignoring John. Some kind souls might find it in their hearts to forgive this rather impolite attitude, as the good doctor was just as intently glaring holes into his friend's occipital bone, and an angry John Watson is a very distressing thing indeed. If he hadn't been too well-educated to cause a scene in public (if one counted the unfortunate cabbie as "public", which one probably should), John would have grabbed the infuriating bastard by the collar of his ridiculously expensive coat and punched some sense into that overinflated head of his. He hadn't been this furious since Sherlock had appeared on his doorstep six months earlier, after three fucking years of letting John believe he was dead. Sherlock, being very aware of that fact, obviously slightly dreaded the return to Baker Street. Well he deserved to be anxious, the reckless twat. It was only fair after what he had put John through.

John gritted his teeth and balled his fists in his lap as he recalled the night's events for the umpteenth time in ten minutes.

It had started out as a pretty normal case: an extramarital affair and subsequent blackmail. Kristin Halloway, director of one of the City's major offices, had had ongoing relations with one of her employees for over a year. The younger woman had, as Sherlock snarkily put it, "fancied herself madly in love with her boss. The appeal of a forbidden love, no doubt, doubly so due to the stigma on both homosexuality and relationships between an employer and their employee."

Rebecca Summers, the employee, was convinced that Kristin would eventually leave her husband and children and start her life over with her. When Mrs. Halloway had made it clear that she had no intention whatsoever of endangering her family life, and that, as such, Rebecca shouldn't expect anything more of her then the occasional tumble on the couch of her office, the younger woman had blown a fuse and vowed revenge. During the next such "tumble on the couch", she'd nicked her lover's diamond earrings. They were a present from her husband, and he was sure to notice that they had gone missing, and would so discover his wife's infidelity, unless Kristin paid an exorbitant sum of money and gave Rebecca a promotion to get the jewels back.

Kristin hadn't wanted to subject herself to her ex-lover's little game and had enlisted Sherlock's help. He had successfully retrieved the earrings without giving Rebecca time to alert the husband, and they thought the case was closed, but then it all started going downhill. Children got involved, and even Sherlock didn't like that. That afternoon, Rebecca had come to Kristin's little daughters' school and told them that their mom had asked her to pick them up because she'd be late. The girls, who knew Ms. Summers, as she had had dinner at their house a few times, believed her and got in her car.

Two hours later, Kristin Halloway came pounding on the door of 221b Baker Street. Rebecca Summers was threatening to kill her children in the next twenty-four hours if she didn't pay her a ransom far higher than she would ever be able to pay, even if she sold the company.

Mrs. Halloway was in an absolute panic, and Sherlock was dismayed that he'd underestimated Rebecca's lust for revenge and the lengths to which she'd go to achieve it. A young woman willing to murder innocent children in cold blood, all because of a failed relationship? That wasn't something he'd ever been confronted with before. So he cross-examined Mrs. Halloway on details of her children, the school and the phone call, and then proceeded to stare into space for precisely thirty-seven seconds, trying to figure out where Ms. Summers could have taken the kids. Having apparently figured it out, he whisked out of the door and into a cab before John could even put on his shoes. Fuming and worried, the good doctor called Lestrade and told him to send a police car to Baker Street, in the hope that Sherlock would have the presence of mind to alert him as to where exactly he was headed. Luckily, John's reaction when he had come back from the dead had caused Sherlock to at least marginally rethink his behaviour during cases, and as Lestrade barged through the door to the flat with an exasperated "What has he gotten himself into this time?", John's phone pinged with a text.

Mrs. Halloway's office. Come quickly. – SH

Muttering angrily to himself about stupid, arrogant flatmates who kept endangering themselves and everyone around them, John ushered Greg, Sally and Mrs. Halloway into the police car, and they headed for the City at full speed, sirens on and lights flashing.

Exactly twelve minutes later, they were standing in front of the building that housed Mrs. Halloway' company.

"How did he get in?" the woman mused, "Rebecca I get, she knows the code, but Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, the freak is brilliant at knowing things he shouldn't have any way of knowing, Mrs. Halloway. If I were you, that's not the bit I'd be worried about." Sally snarked.

John glared at her furiously; he had yet to forgive her for her distrust and the role she'd played in Sherlock's downfall. Noticing his anger, Sally cowered slightly and shot him an apologetic glance. Meanwhile, Mrs. Halloway was tapping rapidly on the keyboard next to the entrance, and the door slid open quietly. Lestrade whispered: "John, Sally, take the stairs. We'll take the elevator. Second floor, right?" he asked Kristin. She nodded. He turned back towards John: "And be quiet! We want to surprise her!"

John bolted up the stairs, heart hammering in his chest. God knew what Sherlock could have gotten himself into by now. If that woman wasn't afraid of murdering children, he was pretty sure she'd have no qualms about killing Sherlock on the spot. The thought made him jump the last three stairs at once, and he found himself on the second floor, Sally close behind. The light was on in one of the offices, and he could hear Sherlock's deep baritone, though the actual words were indiscernible. He exhaled softly in relief; at least Sherlock was still alive.

As quietly as he could, he inched closer to the open door. On the other side of the hallway, the doors of the elevator slid open soundlessly, and John thanked the heavens for posh companies who fancied themselves too classy for pings and beeps. They came together to frame the door, John and Sally on one side, Greg and Mrs. Halloway on the other. Wondering if they should just barge into the office and count on the element of surprise, John shot Greg a questioning look, and the D.I. shook his head in response. He wanted to assess the situation first; after all, Summers had proven to be very irrational, and there were children's lives at stake.

This close, John could make out what Sherlock was saying, and it made him want to throw caution in the wind and pounce through the door to shut the stupid git up because at that rate he was going to get himself killed in no time. He was insulting the woman! Insulting an irrational, possibly psychotic, absolutely unpredictable child kidnapper! Sometimes John wondered if Sherlock actually had a death wish, or if he just thought himself immortal. Or maybe, but that was a possibility John would rather not think about though one of these days he was going to punch it out of his flatmate, he genuinely didn't care if he lived or died. Well John did care, and he was not going to let the git get himself killed anytime soon because he was going to do something drastic if he ever had to live without Sherlock again. While he was pretty certain Sherlock did not return John's decidedly less-than-platonic feelings, he was still his best friend, and those three years had been more painful than he'd ever admitted to anyone.

As if on cue, Sherlock's voice boomed through the room and echoed in the hallway: "Sentiment! Why is it always sentiment? You seemed ruthless and you fancy yourself clever, but you're just as stupid as anybody else. You made it too easy to find you. Of course you'd be here! You wanted to destroy her life in the very room where you felt she destroyed yours. So very predictable." John could clearly hear the sneer in Sherlock's voice.

"Yes, you found me, congratulations." a husky, but slightly trembling voice answered him. "And now what? The kids are at my mercy, you won't be quick enough to save them, as clever as you might be. You're powerless. And little Lizzy and Vicky here are going to pay for what their mother did to me."

Mrs. Halloway whimpered, and Lestrade swiftly covered her mouth with his hand. He leaned in to murmur as quietly as humanly possible: "Is she armed?"

Kristin nodded frightfully, whispering: "I think so; she knows I keep a revolver in the top drawer after that string of burglaries two months ago."

John banged the back of his head softly against the wall. Sherlock was in there, unarmed, in the company of two innocent little girls and a lunatic with a gun. If the reckless twat got out of this alive, John was damn well going to murder him himself for being so bloody careless. And of course John didn't have his own gun with him ,because Lestrade was not supposed to know he owned one. Oh, great. Absolutely brilliant.

Yes, there were five of them against only one Ms. Summers, so it should be easy to overpower the woman, but if she was holding a gun against the girls' heads, they could have come with the whole of Scotland Yard and it wouldn't have made any difference.

On the other side of the wall, Sherlock was talking again.

"You would actually do it? Kill two innocent children in cold blood just because you got rejected?"

"I said I would, didn't I?"

Sherlock's voice was a low hiss when he answered: "You disgust me."

John moaned internally. Of all times to be noble... He was going to get himself killed in the next few minutes if he kept angering her further.

The woman was yelling now: "You don't understand! I loved her, I gave her everything, and she betrayed me! She used me, she hurt me, and now she deserves to feel something as painful as what she made me feel!"

"And you believe the disappointment of a rejection even remotely resembles the anguish of losing both your children? You must have fallen extremely low if a sociopath understands more about emotions than you do."

"SHUT UP!"

The shriek of anger resonated through the building, and when it faded, it was replaced by the sound of a wailing child.

"You too! Shut your mouth! Elizabeth, get your sister to stop crying or I swear I'll shoot her through the head right this very instant!"

The older girl started frantically whispering to her little sister, and the sobs quietened and eventually stopped entirely. Looking over at Mrs. Halloway, John saw that her eyes were brimming with tears and her hands were pressed against her mouth in terror. He shot Greg a look, trying to convey the message that he was barging into that room in the next few seconds, dangerous or not, with or without Greg's permission.

Greg and Donovan had a silent conversation over his shoulder, then Sally took his arm and pulled him behind her back, grabbing her revolver with her other hand. She hissed in his ear: "Stay behind me, Mr. Hero, you hear me? The freak would never forgive me if I let you get killed."

Meanwhile, Greg was instructing Mrs. Halloway to stay outside; seeing her would only serve to make Rebecca even more furious. Eyes locked on the door, Greg mouthed "One, two, three." and stepped into the room, Sally and John on his heels.

With a quick, sweeping glance, John assessed the situation. Sherlock was standing with his back to the door, looking at Rebecca, who was standing behind the desk, obviously using it as a shield. To her right, Elizabeth and Victoria were seated on the couch, hands and feet bound. Rebecca was holding the gun in her right hand, she was close enough to the girls that missing her shot was hardly a possibility, and the desk was in the way so he couldn't tackle her and hope he'd be fast enough so that she wouldn't have the time to shoot. Fuck it, they were pretty screwed.

Sherlock didn't move a muscle when he heard them entering, but Rebecca jumped and aimed her revolver squarely at Victoria's head, screaming "Stay back! Stay back or she's dead!".

Damn the woman had good reflexes; John had to give her that. Had she pointed her gun on one of them, she'd be done for, because both Sally and Greg were armed and could have taken her down before she could seriously hurt someone. But the girls were powerless, closer to her, couldn't move to try to dodge the bullet, and even if Sally or Greg shot her now, chances were she'd succeed to kill Victoria first.

John looked at the D.I., and realized he had come to the same conclusion. Thinking as fast as he could, he tried to come up with a solution, but Sherlock's voice interrupted his frantic thought process.

"John. Lestrade, Donovan. How kind of you to join me. But I was hoping you'd have brought Mrs. Halloway's with you. It's a bit rude to leave her standing outside like that, don't you think?"

"What the fuck? Have you lost your bloody mind?!" Donovan started yelling, but her voice was quickly covered by Rebecca's scream:

"Is she here? She's here, that back-stabbing bitch! Kristin, get in here right now or I swear to God your precious little daughter is dead in ten seconds!"

John was horrified. Sherlock had deliberately made the situation worse, endangering Kristin and making Rebecca absolutely enraged. Granted, Sherlock was never the most psychologically attuned person, but this was really stupid and dangerous, even for him.

Kristin ran into the room, tears streaming down her face and begging: "Rebecca please don't do this, you don't have to do this, I'm sorry, please don't hurt them, please Rebecca.."

The other woman cut her short with a roar: "Shut up you fucking bitch! Shut up, you deserve this!". In her anger, she swivelled on her heel and pointed her gun on her ex-lover, and suddenly the pieces clicked in John's head.

Rebecca was still screaming "I'll kill you too! I'll fucking kill you and kill your precious babies who were more important to you than I could ever hope to be!", and Sherlock took advantage of her distraction. He leapt over the desk like an oversized bat and threw himself on top of the screeching woman, tackling her to the floor. A shot rang out, and Kristin screamed in terror, but Sherlock had succeeded to wrench the revolver from Rebecca's grip and swiftly knocked her unconscious with the butt.

For a second, the room was very, very silent. When he was certain the woman was definitely out cold, John raced to his friend's side and pulled him to his feet, patting him all over, checking for injuries.

"Did she hit you? Sherlock, are you hurt?" he pressed, sounding terrified even to his own ears.

"I'm fine, John. The bullet went into the ceiling, look." Sherlock reassured him

And indeed, the mark of a bullet was clearly visible in the once pristine white surface. John let out a shuddery breath of relief and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder for a second, before catching himself and quickly looking around him to check if everyone else was alright.

Sally had already untied the girls and was murmuring words of comfort to them, while Greg was locking handcuffs around Rebecca's wrists. Kristin crossed the room on trembling legs and slid to her knees in front of the couch, throwing her arms around her daughters and sobbing into their laps.

Sally stood up and retreated to where Greg was standing, waiting for Rebecca to regain consciousness so they could take her to the police station. After a last glance around the room, John decided they weren't needed here anymore. He walked up to Sally and Greg, Sherlock trailing behind.

"Sherlock you utter lunatic!" Greg started to admonish, but even before Sherlock could interrupt with some flippant statement about how he had calculated everything and there was hardly any risk involved etc etc ad lib, John cut him off:

"Greg, Sally, we're going home. We'll drop by tomorrow for the paperwork. Thanks for being so quick to help tonight."

Sherlock spluttered: "Home? But John, what about Ms. Summers and official statements and.."

John looked him sternly in the eye: "Yes, Sherlock, home."

For a moment, Sherlock seemed to hesitate between irritation and compliance, but in the end he huffed: "Fine. Lestrade, I'll see you tomorrow. Please attempt not to make a mess of the report."

John didn't miss the half-astonished, half-amused glance Sally shot them, but he chose to ignore it, and swiftly marched out the door, followed closely by his flatmate.

And that was how he found himself in a cab on its way to Baker Street, glowering intently at a mass of dark, unruly curls. Sherlock's face was still obstinately turned away, but he knew perfectly well he couldn't ignore John forever.

When the cab stopped in front of 221 Baker Street, John stepped out quickly, leaving it to Sherlock to pay the cabbie. It was a small revenge, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. He unlocked to door and climbed the stairs to their flat, Sherlock right behind him. When they had both entered the flat, Sherlock made as if to head for his bedroom, but John swiftly turned on his heel to face him. Sherlock seemed to consider for a moment whether it was worth defying him, but quickly realized that he would only be delaying the confrontation. John was nothing if not persistent, especially when he was angry about something.

So Sherlock leant back against the wall, arms crossed, an awaiting expression on his face. His right foot nervously tapping the rhythm to Paganini's Caprice 24 was the only indicator that maybe he wasn't exactly as unimpressed as he was trying to appear.

John took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and glared at his flatmate. Sherlock braced himself for the oncoming verbal onslaught.

"We had a deal Sherlock! When you miraculously came back from the dead, you promised me you would never deliberately endanger your own life again! And now you run off on your own, straight into the arms of an armed lunatic who was threatening to kill children, so what made you think she'd have any concerns about shooting you on the spot? You were alone, unarmed..."

"I sent a text! I knew you were on your way!" Sherlock tried to interject, but John cut him short

"Well you should have waited until we got there! A text is bloody useless if you don't wait for back-up! And then you bloody well decided it was a good idea to start insulting the woman! What were you trying to achieve by riling her up? There were children's lives at stake goddammit! Not to mention your own!"

Sherlock was opening his mouth again, but John didn't give him the chance to say anything.

"And when we arrived, instead of giving us a chance to handle the situation in a potentially non-life-threatening way, you knowingly endangered your client, whom we had been trying to protect, just to get a rise out of that woman. Keeping in mind the fact that she was holding a gun to a little girl's head!"

"I..." Sherlock's third attempt at protesting was just as fruitless as the first two.

"Yes I know you hoped emotion would cause her to make a mistake! And yes I know it worked! But it was just too risky, Sherlock! What if she'd shot the girl? What if she'd shot her mother? What if you hadn't been quick enough? What if the bullet had hit you?"

At this point, John's voice cracked a bit, and he took a deep breath to compose himself.

"Or what if the bullet had hit someone else? You didn't just put your life on the line (though God knows that would have been bad enough as it is), but also your client's, and Greg and Sally's, and mine, and the children, Sherlock, for fuck's sake, children! Do you ever think?"

Suddenly noticing the fact that his hands were fisted in the lapels of Sherlock's coat, he quickly let go of the fabric. Sighing heavily, he walked over to his armchair and sat down, dropping his head into his hands.

After a moment, he heard the rustling of fabric at his feet. He dropped his hands to his knees and lifted his face, and found Sherlock kneeling in front of him. He looked unusually solemn, and if John hadn't known better, he would have sworn there were tears brimming in his friend's eyes.

Cautiously, Sherlock reached out to John, and covered the good doctor's hand with his own. Looking up into confused blue eyes, he gravely stated:

"I'm sorry, John. You're right, I didn't think. It won't happen again, you have my promise."

John stared, astonished:

"Did the great Sherlock Holmes just apologize? And admit to being wrong about something? Can you repeat that so I can record it?"

Sherlock looked disapproving:

"John, I am attempting to be serious here."

"I'm sorry, go on. What brought on this sudden compliance, though?" John wondered.

Sherlock visibly swallowed:

"I'm used to risking my own life, and I've let others risk theirs willingly. But you're right; I endangered innocent people's life. Worse, I endangered yours. I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you. As to my own life... I'm not used to taking care of myself, John, and you're aware of that. And sometimes it's necessary to take risks to solve a case."

"I know that," John interrupted him, "and I'd never ask of you to stop doing that, when it's unavoidable. But in this case it was sheer recklessness, Sherlock."

"I know. I'm sorry. And I swear I won't do it again. I... John, for some obscure reason, you care about me. I've seen what you were like when you thought me dead. I don't ever want to put you through that again. And those three years were torture for me as well, you know. Living without you, knowing you were still at risk... It was excruciating."

John was stunned. In all those years he'd known Sherlock, he'd never seen him display so much emotion. Granted, the detective had started to show more sentiment since his return, but never like this.

Gaze turned downwards, Sherlock continued: "In as far as possible, I'll try to be more careful and reasonable. No case, no puzzle, no thrill is worth making you so miserable, or, worse, risking to lose you."

Gently, John twisted his hand under Sherlock's and turned his palm upwards, encircling his flatmate's slim wrist with his fingers. Sherlock looked up at the contact, and John inhaled sharply at what he saw in those improbable eyes. They were full of an emotion he recognized only too well, because he knew it was reflected in his own eyes.

"Oh." he breathed as understanding finally dawned on him. "I thought relationships were not your area?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him: "And I thought you were straight?"

"Yeah, so did I. Obviously we were both wrong."

Sherlock smirked slightly: "Get your recorder, because this is probably going to be the only time you'll ever hear me say this, but I'm glad I was wrong."

John huffed out a quiet laugh, and then very slowly, very deliberately leant forward. Sherlock tipped his face up in obvious enticement, and John closed the gap between their mouths. Their lips pressed together, lightly at first, then bolder as they both grew more confident.

On the rare occasions when John had permitted himself to daydream about what kissing Sherlock might be like, he'd always imagined adrenalin-fuelled urgency, pent-up tension released under the influence of lingering fear, relief and exhilaration. This was different though. This was sweet, tender, and loving, tentative nearly, a careful exploration of something utterly new and, still, so very inevitable.

Craving more contact, John grabbed both of Sherlock's hands and tugged lightly upwards. Getting the message, Sherlock rose to his feet, breaking their kiss for the shortest possible amount of time before he straddled John's lap and wrapped his arms around his neck, pressing their lips together once more. John's hands skimmed up over the small of his back, his spine, his shoulder-blades, his neck, and eventually tangled themselves in his smooth curls, tugging him closer to John to deepen the kiss. John's tongue ghosted over plump flesh and Sherlock willingly parted his lips, moaning quietly when John pushed his tongue into his mouth, at once claiming and tender. John answered with a moan of his own when Sherlock returned the attention, and suddenly his hands were on Sherlock's chest, attempting to push the Belstaff over his shoulders. Sherlock unwrapped his arms from around John's neck and allowed his coat to slide to the floor, then unzipped John's jacket and slipped his hands under his jumper to caress smooth, warm skin.

John sighed softly in contentment against his flatmate's mouth, then, with a last nip at Sherlock's lower lip, set out to place a trail of kisses along a defined jaw, a long, slender neck, stretching languidly under his attentions, a prominent collarbone, where he bit down gently, eliciting a low whine, and finally the hollow at the base of Sherlock's throat. He could feel the vibrations of Sherlock's moans against the sensitive skin of his lips as he kissed and licked and suckled. Sherlock's long fingers were tangled in John's soft, sandy hair, holding him close against his skin, urging him to keep going, and John could feel an erection to match his own against his lower belly. With a final lick, John tilted his head upwards to look his friend in the eye, whispering: "Bedroom?"

Sherlock's pulse jumped and fluttered against his cheek, and John felt more than he heard the rumbled response of "Oh God yes."

As Sherlock was very reluctant to relinquish his grip on John, the doctor had to practically push him off his lap before he could stand up and grab Sherlock's hand, tugging him along to the bedroom. Sherlock's bedroom, that is, because John very much doubted they'd ever get up a flight of stairs in the state they were in. He was giddy with anticipation and had to fight the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. Grinning like a maniac, he kicked open the door to Sherlock's bedroom, still holding on to his flatmate's hand. Once inside, he pushed Sherlock up against the wall and proceeded to snog him passionately until they were both breathless and gasping into each other's mouth.

Sherlock tugged at the hem of John's jumper: "Clothes. Off." he panted. John giggled, but raised his arms and allowed his jumper and t-shirt to be pulled over his head. Once bare-chested, he set to work on the buttons of Sherlock's impossibly tight purple shirt, considerably hindered by the detective's apparent inability to keep his hands of John's toned chest. Once the garment had finally been successfully discarded, John toed off his shoes, and Sherlock followed his lead.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso, marvelling at the planes of pale, delicate flesh under his hands. He mouthed at Sherlock's collarbone, drawing out a low growl from kiss-swollen lips, and slid his hands down Sherlock's stomach to brush his thumbs against jutting hipbones. Looking up at Sherlock to be absolutely certain he wasn't doing anything the other man was not completely comfortable with, he deftly opened the fly on those ridiculously well-tailored trousers, very deliberately brushing against Sherlock's straining erection. Sherlock all but yelped and his hands flew to John's own trousers, frantically trying to open his fly. His hands were shaking with arousal and nerves, and he huffed in frustration as he couldn't manage to get those damn jeans off of John.

The doctor gently pulled his hands away and placed a reassuring peck on his lips.

"Shhh, there's no rush." he murmured, opening his own fly and letting the trousers pool at his ankles. He stepped out of them and went to sit on the bed, extending his hand toward Sherlock in invitation. The detective quickly discarded his own trousers and walked towards John, dropping to his knees and nuzzling his face in his flatmate's stomach. John gently stroked his hair.

"Sherlock? Have you... Have you ever done this before?" he asked.

"Not with actual people, no." Sherlock answered, voice slightly muffled as his face was still buried in John's soft stomach.

It took a moment before John understood what those words meant, but when comprehension hit, a jolt of arousal shot through him. Imagining Sherlock pleasuring himself, stroking his own cock, pushing fingers into his own body, maybe even a dildo... John gulped audibly, throat suddenly very dry.

"You'll have to show me sometime." he said huskily.

"I will." Sherlock's voice was a low growl as he looked up at him: "Contrarily to popular belief, sex doesn't alarm me, John. However, it requires a level of human interaction that I was always decidedly uninterested in. I believed toys did the trick just as well, without all the complications that come with feelings. Until you came along, that is."

John smiled fondly down at him: "I'm flattered, Sherlock. I really am."

"Yes, well, you were always the exception, weren't you?" Sherlock looked a little uncomfortable, but also very sincere.

John leant forward to rub his nose affectionately against Sherlock's, then placed his hands on Sherlock's waist and tugged him up.

"C'mere, you." he urged, pulling his flatmate down on top of him. There was nothing left between them but the fabric of John's red cotton briefs and Sherlock's outrageously luxurious silk boxers, both slightly wet with precum. He canted his hips to rub his own erection against Sherlock's, and hissed in pleasure at the contact. Sherlock grunted in response.

"I think the pants should come off too." he mumbled into John's shoulder.

"Excellent idea." John approved, and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Sherlock's boxers to drag them down his thighs. When Sherlock had wiggled out of them and kicked them to the floor, he lifted his hips to allow Sherlock to tug his own pants off. Sherlock took advantage of John's naked state to wrap his hand around his cock, and John arched up into his touch, moaning: "Ah, Sherlock!"

Sherlock smiled smugly at him and thumbed his slit, spreading moisture over his glans, and lowered his mouth to John's left nipple, sucking and licking at it, never faltering in his rhythm on John's cock.

"Sherlock... ah!" John panted, "Not that I'm not... oooooh... thoroughly enjoying this, but if you... fuck yes right there... keep on doing that this might... aaaaaah... be over much sooner than you... oh!... planned for."

Smirking slightly, Sherlock took his hand off John's cock. He placed a light kiss on John's scar, then on his lightly stubbly jaw, then on his mouth.

"So, how do you want to do this?" John murmured against his lips, having somewhat composed himself.

"I'd like you to penetrate me." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"You smooth talker you." John giggled. "Are you sure though? You don't need to do this on your first time, there are loads of other things we..."

"John, you'd hardly be the first thing I've had up my rectum. Yes, I am quite certain. I want you inside me."

Despite Sherlock's utter lack of talent in the area of dirty talk, John's body flared with arousal at the statement. He pulled Sherlock's head down for a passionate kiss, then asked: "Lube?"

"Top drawer." Sherlock answered, immediately reclaiming John's mouth, teeth tugging lightly at his lower lip.

John blindly reached for the nightstand, managed to open the drawer and rooted about until he found the small bottle of lubricant, cock jumping again as the half-empty weight reminded him of exactly what Sherlock had used this for, before. He also grabbed a condom; Sherlock was apparently nothing if not hygienic about masturbation.

Dropping the supplies on the bed, he brought his hands to Sherlock's waist and flipped them over in one fluid move so he was now on top and straddling his flatmate. Sherlock's pupils dilated even more at John's little display of strength, and John chuckled. He dropped a kiss to Sherlock's plush lips, then started kissing his way down his pale, lithe, angular body. Like before, he mouthed at his neck and collarbone, biting and sucking until he was sure he'd left a mark, and he would have sworn the sound Sherlock made was an actual purr.

He then took Sherlock's right nipple in his mouth, and pinched the left one between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock all but mewled at the sensation and his nails raked across John's back, leaving light scratches in their wake.

John sidled lower, covering Sherlock's hard stomach in butterfly kisses. Sherlock hissed when he hit a ticklish spot, and moaned out loud when he dipped his tongue in his belly button. Considering what he planned on doing next, John looked up into Sherlock's lust-blown eyes, lips ghosting over the concave of his lower belly.

"I've never done this before, so bear with me, alright?"

Sherlock nodded, licking his lips in anticipation, and suddenly cried out as John wrapped his lips around the head of his cock. Tentatively, his tongue circled the glans one, two, three times, then flicked lightly against the slit. The taste of Sherlock's precum was slightly salty, tangy, but not unpleasant.

"John, oh god yes John!" Sherlock moaned, and the obvious pleasure dripping from his sultry voice emboldened his partner. John lowered his head cautiously, letting Sherlock's cock slide into his mouth until the head hit the soft part of John's palate. He slid back up, then down again, and Sherlock had to restrain himself from bucking up into that warm, wet mouth.

John felt around the bed for a moment before he found the bottle of lube. He opened the cap and coated his fingers with a liberal amount of the clear substance. Mouth still on Sherlock's cock, he moved his hand below Sherlock's balls, cupping them gently for a second, then circling Sherlock's puckered entrance with his middle finger. Sherlock groaned in pleasure and spread his legs, canting his hips up to rant John better access. Carefully, John pressed the pad of his finger against Sherlock's arsehole and lets it slip in to the first knuckle. Inside, he felt hot and humid and soft. Sherlock moaned, high and needy, and John hummed in response around his cock. He gently moved his finger in and out until it slid all the way in without any resistance. Then he repeated the process with a second finger, scissoring them cautiously, crooking and angling them until they hit the small bundle of nerves he was looking for, and Sherlock cried out his name, bucking up into his mouth. John lifted his head just in time to avoid gagging, but promptly lowered it again, holding Sherlock's hips down with his free hand.

"More, John, please, more!" Sherlock pleaded, and John figured he knew exactly what his own body could take, so he added a third finger and licked a stripe over the vein pulsing on the underside of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock was writhing and keening above him, and as John couldn't help but moan at the sight as he looked up at him. Pupils blown, mouth slack with pleasure, a flush covering his sharp cheekbones, head lolling about in the pillows, hair messy and tousled, Sherlock looked utterly debauched and absolutely gorgeous. It was only a few more minutes of John's mouth on his cock, sucking and licking so beautifully, and John's fingers up his arse, caressing and stretching him out and prodding randomly at his prostate, before Sherlock was full-out begging.

"John, John, please, I'm ready, oh John please, please fuck me, please love, fuck me, John, John oh my John."

John didn't know if it was the begging, the terms of endearment, or the use of profanities, all so unusual in Sherlock's mouth (it was probably a bit of all three), but he couldn't for the life of him resist Sherlock when he sounded like that. He spread his fingers one last time inside Sherlock to make sure he was loose and relaxed enough, then he released Sherlock's cock with a quiet pop, and kneeled up between his spread thighs. He pulls his fingers out of Sherlock's arse, and Sherlock whined at the loss, but John was already rolling a condom over his cock and slicking himself up with excess lube.

He leant over and kissed Sherlock's open mouth, intertwining his fingers with those of Sherlock's right hand. Then he righted himself up again, and hoisted one of Sherlock's legs over his good shoulder. The other wrapped itself around his waist, heel digging into his arsecheek.

John aligned himself with Sherlock's entrance and very slowly, very carefully pushed in. He stopped when the head was fully inside, giving Sherlock time to adjust. The sensation was amazing; Sherlock felt hot and tight around his cock, and John nearly sobbed in pleasure. When Sherlock's grip on his hand loosened a bit, and he stopped biting on his lower lip, allowing his mouth to from a perfect O around a luscious moan, John pushed forward again, until he was entirely buried in Sherlock's arse. He waited again, one hand squeezing Sherlock's reassuringly, the other rubbing circles on his lower belly. He stared into Sherlock's darkened eyes and gasped as he saw his own awe and adoration reflected in the other man's gaze. The smile that bloomed on his face was blissful and loving, and Sherlock smiles right back.

"You can move now." he exhorted, his voice low and husky, and John smoothed his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand and complied. He started out slow and careful, moaning lowly, trying to control himself, but Sherlock dug his heel hard into his arse and hissed: "Harder, John, harder, damn it, I'm not gonna break!" and John was done for. He pumped his hips in earnest now, as fast and deep and hard as possible without sacrificing precision. He tilted his pelvis upwards just a bit, and Sherlock fairly shouted in pleasure as John's cock dragged over his prostate. John kept his thrusts at that precise angle, and before long Sherlock was an incoherent mess, moaning and groaning and chanting John's name over and over again.

John was babbling too, staring down at his new-found lover like he was his entire universe, and right now, he probably was.

"God Sherlock, look at you!" he moaned disbelievingly, "Look at you! You're just so fucking gorgeous! You're gorgeous and brilliant and amazing and I can't believe you're mine!"

Sherlock squeezed his hand, hard, and threw his head back, neck stretching beautifully, grunting: "Yes, John, yours. I'm yours, always, yours, yours, yours." and hearing those words in that voice caused John to sob in pleasure and emotion, and his hand flew to Sherlock's cock and stroked it fast and smooth and perfect and Sherlock was screaming, actually screaming John's name as come splattered both their stomachs. Sherlock's leg slipped off John's shoulder and his lean body convulsed around his cock and the feeling was so damn spectacular that it took only four more thrusts before John was yelling: "Sherlock! Oh God, Sherlock!" as his own climax hit him like a tidal wave. He rode out his orgasm, fingers digging hard into Sherlock's hip, and finally collapsed on his lover's chest, long pale legs splayed out on both sides of his own.

Sherlock disentangled their fingers and smoothed both his hands through John's damp, matted hair, pressing a kiss on top of his head.

"That," he whispered, "was absolutely amazing." and John laughed ("Yes it was, wasn't it?") and they were kissing again, soft and languid and sated. John reluctantly left his lover's embrace to pop into the loo, disposing of the used condom and returning with a wet flannel. He tenderly cleaned Sherlock up first, then himself, more efficiently. Dropping the soiled cloth to the floor, he crawled back into bed, lying down on his back. Sherlock clung close to him, legs entangled, one arm thrown across John's chest, face nuzzled into his shoulder.

John chuckled: "I never took you for a cuddler."

"Yes, well, I'm full of surprises, aren't I?" Sherlock muttered.

"You are indeed."

Sherlock could hear John's fond smile in his voice.

"I love you, you absolute nutter." John whispered into dark, tousled curls, and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Yes, he knew that already, but hearing John say it... It felt entirely different. It felt wonderful.

Smiling blissfully against warm skin, Sherlock murmured: "I love you too.", knowing that for all his solved cases and spot-on deductions, he'd never said anything that was more absolutely, unquestionably, undeniably true.

**Please leave me a review?**


End file.
